


untitled FitzSimmons vignettes

by windsorblue



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsorblue/pseuds/windsorblue





	untitled FitzSimmons vignettes

**untitled (1) - after "The Only Light in the Darkness":**

She comes in and says "We need to talk", and he agrees, he really does. But he can't say anything because the words are all backed up in his throat, stopped up like a bad pipe, and he's afraid that if he talks first, all those words will overflow out, haphazard, messy, all over the floor. So he just looks up at her and lets her start, and when she does it's about Trip, and how Trip thinks he's done something that made Fitz angry. He has, but it's not his fault, really, and Fitz knows he's been unfair to the guy. 

He doesn't care. He doesn't care if he's been unfair to Trip. Trip is not his concern right now. But Trip *is* her concern - which is the very definition of unfair, but there you are - and so now Trip will just have to be *his* concern as well, Fitz supposes.

He can't say that, of course. He can't tell Simmons that he doesn't care that he's being unfair to Trip, and the words he wants to say - that he's supposed to be saying right now, if only his mouth and his brain were on speaking terms - those aren't happening. They're all stopped up.

She's frowning, and Fitz thinks, I want to be your hero. Your only hero. Not just one more in a long line of guys who will do heroic things for you. For a shot at you. I want to be your hero forever. Your knight in shining armor, and I know that's some bullshit cultural artifact that's been crammed into my brain since I was old enough to notice that the lady on the money and the lady on the stamps were the same person, but that's what I want to be for you. Your Galahad, your Lancelot. I want to ride into battle with your kerchief tied to the hilt of my sword. It's dumb and it's bullshit, and I want it more than anything.

"You know how I get," he hears himself say, and what he wants is for her to read his mind, which is even dumber than the knight thing. "I just don't like change."

She sighs. "Oh, Fitz."

There are about a hundred ways he wants to hear her say "Oh, Fitz," and none of them involve him pouting while strapped into a jump seat on a nearly-empty personnel carrier and her feeling sorry for him, but her voice hits his ear like a puff of raw magic. It's fine, if she feels sorry for him. It's not ideal, but it's fine. Sorry is better than nothing at all.

She sits down in the seat next to him and takes one of his hands into both of hers, and he smiles, tilts his head to look at her. 

"Better buckle up, if you're going to sit there," he says. It's not what he wanted to say, but it came out first, so.

"I will in a minute," she says, and she squeezes his hand. 

 

 

**untitled (2) - after "Beginning of the End":**

She's reliving it, over and over, in her sleep. 

She hears him explaining about the oxygen mask. Hears those words - end of story - hears herself arguing, and it's kind of like she's watching a movie of her own life that's been filmed from inside her head. 

She hears him say - you're more than that - and can feel her insides coming undone. She hears herself sobbing and can feel his skin against her lips. She gets a little lost wondering if she'd kissed him on the mouth, if that would have stayed his hand; if that would have kept him from firing the explosive. This isn't a productive train of thought. Not much can get done if this gets stuck in her head all day. So she doesn't let her mind wander down that path just now. She tries instead to press that feeling of what his cheeks and neck taste like into permanent memories, like grooves on a vinyl record. 

She hears herself screaming, and when she wakes up her pulse is pounding in her ears. She can't breathe properly because it feels like the ocean is punching her in the gut, over and over, at least a hundred times. She sits up and concentrates on breathing correctly - maybe when she does, the pounding in her ears will go away. The breathing gets a little better, but the pounding is sill there. 

"Jemma? Jemma, are you okay? Open the door, Jemma, please." 

It takes her a minute to process someone else's voice. It's a minute too long. The pulse-pounding stops, replaced by a single loud clunk and the tinkle of metal - bits of what used to be the lock to her door are hitting the floor, and May's nudging the door open with her foot. Skye pushes her way into her room and rushes over to the bed, perching on the side like an anxious mother. 

"Are you okay?" Skye says. She's got her hands on Jemma's shoulders, and one drops down to Jemma's empty hands, lying uselessly at the edge of her lap. "You were screaming like someone was murdering you in here."

Jemma's eyes finally focus properly. Skye looks terrified. Trip is standing in the doorway, one hand bracing open the remains of the door. May is behind him, and Coulson is behind her, and they're all peering in at her. She suddenly realizes this is the bit where she's expected to say something reassuring. 

"I'm sorry," Jemma says. "It was just a dream. Nothing for everyone to have gotten worked up about, certainly. I'm so sorry to have woken you all."

Coulson and May look dubious, but they back off first. "Try to get some rest," Coulson says. 

"I will, Sir. Thank you," Simmons replies.

"Sorry about the door," May says. "We'll get it fixed in the morning."

"Of course," Simmons says.

"You need anything, I'm just across the hall," Trip says.

Jemma smiles a little. "Thank you."

Trip does his best to shut the door as he leaves, but it just sort of hangs there, sadly ajar. Skye squeezes Jemma's hand. "Are you sure you're okay? I can stay with you if you want to talk, or just have some company..."

"I'm fine," Jemma nods, and then the tears she's been keeping inside start to well up in her eyes. "Really, just fine." The first few fall, softly, streaking down her cheeks. "I'm absolutely…" She can't. The first sob hits her before she can suck it back in, and Skye just holds her arms open and lets Jemma fall into them. She cries there for a few minutes, unconsolable, though Skye's certainly trying. 

"I have to fix him," Jemma says. Her voice is cracked and desperate around the crying. "I have to."

"I know," Skye says. "You will. If anyone can, you can. I have faith in you, and so does Fitz." That elicits another hard sob. "You're the smartest person I've ever seen, much less known - you can totally get Fitz better."

Jemma shakes her head against Skye's shoulder. "I'm an idiot," she says. "Completely clueless."

“Oh, please,” Skye says. “You know that’s not…”

“Fitz told me he was in love with me,” Jemma blurts out. She sits up straight, sucks in some air, but is still looking down at her lap. “I mean, I think. I think that’s what he told me.”

Skye’s eyebrows are raised. “You _think_ that’s what he told you?”

“Yes. Maybe…I don’t know.” Jemma swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He made up an oxygen mask - only enough for one of us - and made me take it. I begged him to…to think of something else; to come up with a better plan…I told him he was my best friend in the world, and he said I was more than that.” The words are rushing out of her, like she can’t wait to be free of the burden of them. “I don’t know what that means. Do you know what that means?”

Skye’s pretty sure she knows exactly what it means and less sure that she should say so. “Um…”

“I mean, it could mean that he thinks of me as a sister, yeah? Like I’m the sister he never had. Or it could mean that he thinks of us as heterosexual life partners…”

“Like Jay and Silent Bob?” Skye interrupts.

“Yes, exactly! I mean, with more science and less hanging about outside convenience stores, but…”

“I’m pretty sure that ‘heterosexual life partners’ refers to people of the same gender who spend all their time together.”

“Oh. Well, not that then.” Jemma pauses. “Do you think Fitz is in love with me?”

“Honey,” Skye says, pauses, says. “Everyone who ever stepped foot on that bus thinks Fitz is in love with you.”

Jemma slumps, deflating. “Oh, God - I am such an idiot.”

 

**untitled (3) - after untitled (2):**

The door to Ward’s cell slides open and Ward sits up on his cot, swings his feet to the floor. It’s gotta be the middle of the night, he figures, and Skye takes point on one side of the door while Trip takes the other. That stings a little - to see the two of them in sync like that. It makes Ward’s gut twist a little. Neither of them really acknowledge him, and a moment later Simmons comes in and looks more or less directly down her nose at him.

" _Mister_ Ward." 

There's a certain tone of voice - a polite contempt, a cultured disdain - that, in modern society, is properly the realm of British women and Southern grandmothers. Ward is just now realizing how good Simmons is at it.

"Simmons," Ward says. "No Fitz?" She raises an eyebrow, glaring at him, and he says, "Not gonna lie - I'm a little disappointed. I thought you'd be coming in here sooner to thank me."

The other eyebrow shoots up. "Thank you? For what, exactly?"

"I saved your lives," Ward says. 

"We've long since passed the point where I owe you any gratitude for jumping out of the bus after…” She stops, cocks her head at him. "Wait. That's not what you mean at all, is it?"

"Of course not." Even cuffed to the grim little cot in his grim little cell, Ward manages to look smug. "I was ordered to kill you. Garrett wanted you both shot in the head, but I made a different call, and now thanks to me, you're both alive and well."

"Fitz may be alive, but he is most certainly not well."

Ward doesn’t say anything - just cocks his head to one side, like a loyal and confused dog.

"He's in a coma," Simmons says. She's starting to get loud, maybe louder than Ward has ever heard her get. "His brain was without oxygen for a number of minutes while I pulled him up off the ocean floor where you put us. He damn near drowned because of your 'different call', and now you have the gall to behave as though I should be grateful to you?"

Ward blinks. "Garrett wanted you both shot in the head," he says, flat-voiced.

"You stupid git," Simmons says. "You arrogant fucking wanker." No one in the room has ever heard Simmons swear before, and the awkward, startled silence is making Simmons seem even louder. "You were only half the man Fitz was when all this started, and now you're even less than that. Do you know he was the only one of us who was still defending you? Still trying to think the best of you? He had a thousand excuses for your behavior, and not one of them mattered, in the end, did they? Because he was wrong about you, and the rest of us were right - you really were born evil. You put the last ally you had into a bloody coma, and you sit here now and think you deserve a pat on the head and a biscuit for your cleverness." She's right in his face now, stooped over with her finger pointed at him. "You have one shot at making any part of this even a little bit right, you bloody brainless ape. One shot - that's it."

Ward straightens his spine and erases any trace emotions from his face, wearing his arrogance like a thin veneer of flop sweat. "Oh, yeah? And what's that?"

Simmons stands up straight and crosses her arms. "All my research on the hard drive you stole from Skye - the work I did on Skye's and Coulson's recovery. Tell me what you did with it, and with the rest of the GH-325 we picked up from the Guest House."

Ward snorts and shakes his head. "Why should I give you my biggest bargaining chip, huh? And what are you going to do if I don't - scold me some more, maybe?"

"You really are bloody brainless." Simmons starts ticking off her list on her fingers. "The only person that's keeping May from coming in here and garroting you like you did Eric Koenig is Coulson, and that's only because he doesn't want to fill out the paperwork on your death certificate. Skye doesn't give a whit whether you live or die - " At this, Skye tilts her head and nods slightly, that's about right - "And Trip here is perfectly willing to shoot you now and save May the trouble of wiping your blood off of her shoes - " Trip just raises his eyebrows thoughtfully and smiles a little - "And you know what? When push comes to shove, not one of them is even the biggest problem you face. No, Mr. Ward, your problem is me. I'm your problem."

Ward's voice is icy; challenging. "You wouldn't kill me, Simmons."

Simmons leans in, her hands behind her back. "I have two PhD's in fields you can't pronounce, a fully stocked lab at my disposal, a patient that I am desperate to heal, and absolutely no reason to see you as anything but a particularly convenient specimen. I have no intention of killing you, Mr. Ward - at least, not on purpose." She pauses to let Ward catch up. "You will help me get Fitz better," she says, "One way or another."

Ward blinks. "Specimen?"

Simmons steps back with a small, almost gentle smile. "There are so many little medical miracles that sit on the back burner of discovery, simply because in most cases, the idea of testing procedures on live human subjects is deemed unethical. Why, the field of chemical castration alone has all kinds of unexplored possibilities. When I think of the benefits of testing possible cures for traumatic brain injury, finding the best methods to bring people in Fitz's situation back from the very brink of death - why, it's a genuine thrill to think I could contribute so much to science." She's been pacing, and she stops, staring at Ward. "Sorry - _we_. That _we_ could contribute so much to science. All I need is a healthy human specimen, and you, Mr. Ward, will do just fine." 

"Wait," Ward starts. "Hang on…"

"Tell me what you did with my research and with the GH-325,” Simmons says, "Or I promise you, by the end of the day, you will no longer be able to feel your testicles."

"Hang on," Ward repeats.

Simmons is getting loud again. "Information, or dead testicles. What shall it be, Mr. Ward?"

Ward doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at her like he's never met her before. The he says, "You're bluffing. You wouldn't."

"Everyone in this room has gone to great pains to tell me what a horrible liar I am," Simmons says. "Do you really think I'm lying now?"

No one thinks she's lying now. Ward is silent, but his eyes are a little scared. 

Simmons nods abruptly. "Right. Dead testicles it is, then." She moves towards the door, her step eerily light. "No need to bother uncuffing him from the cot - I'll just prepare the first round of syringes, and be back before anyone even knows I'm gone."

She’s barely taken two steps towards the door when Ward says, “Wait.”

Simmons turns.

“I gave your data to Raina. She was trying to replicate your results, but I don’t think she was able to.”

“And the drug?” Simmons says. “What about the drug?”

“Whatever was left of the drug, she mixed up with her Centipede serum and injected into Garrett.”

“All of it? So there’s none left, then?”

“According to Raina, no. That was it.”

Simmons is silent for a long moment. “Well,” she says. “That’s just more experimenting I’ll have to do. More’s the pity for you, Mr. Ward.” And then she’s gone, and Trip is following her out, and Skye’s following Trip. 

“Skye,” Ward says, but she doesn’t stop. The door closes, and he can hear the locks click into place.

They’re two steps down the hall when Skye can’t stand it anymore. “Oh my God, that was awesome!” She grabs Jemma by the elbow and steps quickly to get in front of her. “You kicked his ass in there!”

Trip is nodding, can’t contain his grin. “You even scared me, and I know I’m not the one you’re mad at.”

Simmons smiles a little. “I did feel a little like Hermoine punching Draco Malfoy in the face just then.”

“That was totally what you were doing!” Skye says, and Simmons smiles a little more. 

“Unfortunately,” Simmons says to Skye, “The fact that all the GH-325 is gone means I’m going to need more of your blood.”

Skye shrugs. “For you? Anything. Besides, it was worth it to see you hand Ward his ass on a silver platter.”

 

**untitled (4) - after untitled (3):**

“Any headache?” Simmons asks.

“No,” Fitz replies.

She sits down on the side of his bed, ticking items off her checklist with a silvery mechanical pencil - 0.5 lead, if Fitz recalls correctly. “Any nausea, acid reflux, or difficulty swallowing?”

“No.”

“Any ringing in the ears, phantom smells, or dizziness?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Any depression, suicidal ideation, or negative thoughts?”

“Well, I mean, a few negative thoughts would be normal in this particular situation, wouldn’t you say?”

Simmons nods. “Quite right, Fitz, I suppose they would.” She puts the clipboard and pencil down on the bedside table and starts to get up. “Anything else you’re concerned about, or think we ought to take a look at?”

“Just one thing,” Fitz says. with his good arm, he reaches up, fingers encircling her arm. He pulls her down, his hand sliding up her arm and shoulder to where her scalp meets her neck, and with his fingers slipping into her hair, he kisses her. He kisses her like she’s never been kissed before - like the fairy tales say a kiss should go - like the way you thought kissing would be before you’d ever been kissed. He kisses her like he’s got no other reason to even have a mouth. He kisses her long enough for her to go from being surprised to shocked to concerned about him overexerting himself to just rolling with it because it’s such a good kiss; long enough for her to remember that line from The Princess Bride and realize that this is one of her all-time top three kisses, right here, right now. His mouth lets her go, but his hand doesn’t, and right there, with his mouth just a breath’s distance away from hers, he says, “I’m having a bit of a problem with impulse control.”

She lets out one short, ragged breath and sucks in another one. “I’ll…make a note of it…on your chart.”

“Yeah, I think that’d be wise.”


End file.
